by Lee Wood
“Thank you. You have some nice paintings. Although I suspect a few of them are reproductions?”
“Yes. It’s getting harder to find good quality stock, although you don’t seem to have that problem.”
“Yes, I guess I’m just lucky,” said Martin.
As they chatted further the two men seemed to hit it off and spent the next hour and a half chatting until the lunchtime crowd turned up, eager to spend their money.
By the time the event closed at six pm., Peter was pleased with the amount he had taken, until he noticed the stamp dealer counting up his day’s takings. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter watched Martin, and as best he could estimate, saw he had taken over four thousand pounds. Peter thought he had done well by taking a little over twelve hundred.
A couple of minutes later Martin wandered over. “Peter, I just wondered if you had any plans this evening. I know a nice little restaurant with some fine wines. I’ve really enjoyed our chats today. It would be my treat. I feel we clicked and to be honest, there aren’t many people I get on with like that, so I’d enjoy your company for the evening, if you’re free that is?”
“That’s extremely kind of you. I’ve nothing planned and really enjoyed chatting with you too. I’d be very happy to accept your kind invitation. Thank you.”
After three delicious courses, helped down by two bottles of a most agreeable Chablis, they headed to the hotel where they were both staying.
By the time the taxi arrived at its destination, what had started off as one 'thank you for the lovely meal' peck had developed into several passionate kisses and both men couldn't wait to get back to the room.
Thirty minutes later, they were in Peter's bed making love. What Norman didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
The following morning, both men were back at their stalls and each one dealing with the early flurry of customers.
What Peter noticed was each time Martin sold items he reached into the boxes under his stall and brought out new items so that his stall was still full of saleable items. Peter knew from experience that many dealers had a hard time finding fresh stock.
So during the next ’lull’, Peter brought up the subject as tactfully as he could.
Following their night of passion, it seemed Martin was more than happy to open up and reveal his secrets to Peter of how he managed to keep his stock refreshed.
“Look, Peter, to be honest, six years ago my business was really struggling, he said, at the same time putting a large wad of notes into his cash box. I was on what I thought would be my last buying trip to the US and came across the idea. I wasn’t sure if it would work but I had nothing to lose and it’s turned my fortunes around and I’ve been using it successfully ever since.”
He laid out the details for Peter. “Look. I’ll tell you my secret as long as you promise to use it only for paintings and not encroach on what I sell.”
“Yes, of course. I only sell art and paintings. I’d never tread on your feet.”
“Okay. Let me explain. As I attend stamp and collectors fairs, I have a local company deliver colour leaflets door-to-door in the week before I’m due to attend the fair. I have 10,000 full-colour leaflets designed, printed, then folded in half, for £180 and then arrange for a local leaflet distribution company to deliver the leaflets door to door in the more affluent postcode areas for a price of £40 per thousand. Look, here’s one of my leaflets. It shows the photo examples of items I’m interested in buying, and examples of the prices I’m prepared to pay. So the whole thing with the extra couple of days in hotel bills costs me about £700 and each time I always make an extremely good profit.”
Peter took note of the wording: ‘Do you have cash hidden in your attic? Renowned International Stamp and Postcard Dealer wishes to purchase collections and single items. Free valuation and best prices paid.’
Martin went on to say, “It’s simple. I get the leaflets dropped and then arrive at the hotel a couple of days before the fair and visit all the people who’ve replied to the leaflet. I’ve found lots of items that people have hidden in their lofts for years. Often they’ve been left a stamp collection or some old postcards by an elderly relative and they have no idea what they’re worth. And,” he boasted, “I usually manage to pick them up for a song. Now I’m making a very nice income. A very nice income.” He repeated it as if to emphasize the point.
On Sunday the fair closed at five and within half an hour, Martin and Peter had loaded all of their remaining stock into their vehicles.
“It was a real pleasure to meet you, Peter. I enjoyed our time together. We must do it again some time.”
“Yes, that would be nice. I enjoyed it too. And thank you for the details of the leaflets. I’ve decided I’m going to give it a go as soon as I get back to London. I’ll contact the leaflet companies you’ve kindly written down for me. Thank you for the meal and everything. I enjoyed meeting you and, well, you know. I’ll send you a list of the fairs I’m attending and perhaps we can meet again soon. Safe journey.”
The next day, Peter woke up just after ten. He was always a late riser, whereas Norman was usually up by seven.
Norman was already working downstairs in the shop. Peter decided to contact the sales representatives whose name Martin had given him. The first one he contacted advised Peter to run the leaflet in certain postcode areas where the population was of a ‘more mature age’, as he put it. They could target the drop and miss out council estates and student bedsit areas.
Peter knew someone who worked in the art department at the local college and they put him in touch with a student on a graphic design course who could produce a leaflet based on the one Peter had been given by Martin.
He had them change the wording from the same as Martin’s to ‘Renowned London Art Dealer wishes to purchase original paintings and antiques. Do You Have Cash Hidden in Your Attic? Free valuation and best prices paid.’
The young designer also added photos of antiques and paintings he had found on the internet as examples.”
The next big fair Peter was due to attend was the Evesham Art and Antiques Fair in the Midlands town of Market Drayton. However, the sales rep suggested he run the leaflet drop some fifteen miles away in a town called Trentbridge, as it offered a better demographic of wealthy retired people.
Following that advice, Peter consulted Google and found the Albion Hotel listed as the best in the area and just a fifteen-minute drive from where the fair was being held.
Shortly after the first batch of 10,000 leaflets dropped through letter boxes on the Friday of the week before the antiques fair, he received five phone calls. Things were looking good.
Maybe, just maybe, this was going to be the lucky break he had been searching for.
Chapter Six
MAY 2016 - THE FIVE APPOINTMENTS
Peter was a worried man. Since the leaflets had gone out he had received five phone calls with people offering to sell him paintings. He had just left the second of the appointments empty-handed. Both items, which had been described on the phone as family heirlooms had turned out to be cheap reproductions.
So far he was £700 out of pocket for the cost of printing, delivering the 10,000 highly attractive full-colour glossy leaflets and his hotel bill.
Then, to his relief, from his next appointment he walked away with a collection of five paintings, bought at a cost of £240 and worth about £1,800.
He expected one or two of them would sell at the Evesham Art and Antiques Fair over the weekend.
A short distance away at his forth appointment, he found a single painting, which after an initial offer of £350 was rejected a final price of £480 had been accepted. It should still make a profit. Peter was confident it would sell for £800.
The stamp dealer was right. Based on the paintings he had found so far, and taking into account the costs of printing and delivering the leaflets, Peter estimated he had already made a profit of more than £1,000.
As he made the two-mile journey h
is satnav promised would take him to the last address, he was hoping this final appointment would produce a couple more paintings that would be the icing on the cake.
Driving towards Brunson Road in Cherrywood, the signs looked good. He drove past lots of detached houses proudly displaying their well-tended front gardens. He could see a lot of expensive cars parked behind remote controlled gates. This was an affluent area. Two minutes later Peter’s satnav announced he had reached his destination. As he had done for his previous visits, he parked a few doors down the road. A ten-year-old battered Volvo didn’t give the right impression of a leading London art dealer. As number sixty-four came into view his upbeat mood dropped. He could tell from the outside it was going to be a waste of time. Unkempt bushes, a front gate barely hanging on its hinges and holes in the outside plaster. As he shuffled up the path, he almost decided it wasn’t worth ringing the doorbell but thought as he was already standing outside, what had he got to lose?
The door to the house had two frosted glass panels in the upper section. He rang the bell and watched as a figure inside approached. The door was opened by a short, thin lady with close-cropped grey hair who looked to be well into her sixties. Peter announced himself using his well-practised happy to meet you smile.
“Hello, Mrs Brown, I’m Peter the London art dealer. We spoke on the phone if you remember. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Yes, the arty man. Come in dear; I’ve been expecting you.”
Peter stepped inside. The house had obviously enjoyed better days but those were long gone. The hallway was dingy with peeling wallpaper. The carpet was threadbare in places.
“The place could do with a lick of paint but if I ask the landlord to make improvements, he’ll probably put up my rent, so that’s not my priority at the moment.”
I’m sure you’ll be interested in the paintings. They were left to me by my parents. They must be very old.
Peter smiled in response, thinking to himself ‘not a house where you would expect to find anything of value’. But he recalled he’d been wrong before. Ten years ago he and his late dad John had visited a run-down council estate and managed to pick up an early Susie Cooper tea set and some pieces of Moorcroft pottery for a few pounds.
June Brown showed Peter through to the kitchen and, without asking, put the kettle on and placed two cups on the table. “Have a seat, dear. I expect you’ll want a nice cup of tea after your journey.”
“Please don’t bother on my account, Mrs Brown.”
“Call me June, dear. It’s no trouble at all. Nice to have a visitor to the house,” she said as she filled the kettle.
My husband and I moved here in 1978, the year after our daughter was born. Larry, that’s my late husband, he always called her Dee, as that’s her initial, but he always called her that because he said she was his diamond. His most precious possession. He adored her. He said seeing the pair of us first thing in the morning was what got him through each day. He was such a lovely man.”
Peter listened to her going on and smiled in what he thought were the right places, but he wasn’t paying much attention.
She continued. “Dee moved out when she got married in, let me think, it must have been 2005. Oh, it was such a lovely wedding. I’ve got the photo album somewhere. Then the following year she had a daughter of her own. Dee’s divorced now. She works in, what does she call it, oh yes, the hospitality trade.”
The kettle started to boil, and Mrs Brown went over to the wall cupboard and took out two tea bags from a large box, far bigger than Peter had ever seen in a supermarket. It looked like June’s daughter gave her mother one of the ‘perks’ of the trade.
“She’s a good girl, comes round twice a week. It gives me a chance to see my granddaughter while I still can. Good health, you take it for granted, don’t you.”
June poured out the tea. “Milk and sugar, dear?”
After a cup of tea and another five long minutes chat about family illness, the cost of treatment and things he considered to be of no interest and to which he paid little attention. June finally took Peter through to the front lounge where three paintings were spread across a long tatty grey sofa.
‘At last’ thought Peter. ‘I thought she’d never shut up about her problems’.
As they walked into the front room, Peter could see the patches on the wall where they had previously been hanging. It didn’t take him long to access their value. He estimated the pictures were worth maybe £180 to £220 each.
“Yes, I recognise them. These are by an artist called Camille Corot. As you can see from the detail, he wasn’t a talented artist. Although they are old, unfortunately they aren’t that rare.
“The best I can offer you is £120 for the three”. He started to pull out six crisp twenty-pound notes to entice her.
“That’s a shame dear. I was hoping they would help. I’ve got another painting. Perhaps you would like to see that.”
Peter used his well-practised fake smile as Mrs Brown said her late husband had told her the painting might be valuable one day and she was hoping it would be worth a lot as she needed money for her granddaughter, the family emergency she had told Peter about earlier.
June explained that her husband Larry had been killed in a road accident in 2003 by a drunk driver to whom the court had given a suspended sentence and £450 fine.
Larry had been given the painting before they were married when he went on a trip to France in 1965 with five friends and they had met someone one of the group knew who had been to the UK a few months earlier to study English. Larry had prevented this person from drowning and the boy’s father had given him the painting as a way of saying thank you.
She remembered the son’s name was Claude because it’s also her brother's name.
The weird-looking painting had been kept in the attic and forgotten about until she had received the leaflet offering to buy paintings.
“I’ve left it upstairs, dear. Having it in the room gives me the creeps, it’s so weird, but you might like it. I’ll just go and get it.”
A minute later June walked back into the room carrying the ‘weird’ painting.
“Here we are, dear. This is it. See what I mean about it being creepy?”
Peter’s legs almost gave way. He recognised the valuable masterpiece at once. He could feel his heart rate rise in his chest.
“There’s a handwritten note attached to the back. I think it’s all in French, so I’m not really sure what it says. Larry said it was written by the man who painted it. I assume it says something along the lines of ‘thank you for saving my son’?”
Peter pretended he didn’t understand the note either. In reality, he understood every word and it took everything he had to stop himself from shaking.
June Brown signed and dated the receipt with a detailed description of each painting after the highly reputable London art dealer had given her the best price he possibly could and counted out the cash.
The painting hadn’t turned out to be as valuable as she had thought. But in the current situation, she was desperate, and every penny would help.
“Thank you, Mrs Brown. It’s been a genuine pleasure meeting you. I’m just sorry I couldn’t offer you more under the circumstances”
“Thank you, dear. I know you’ve done your best. That’s why I contacted you rather than someone local. I knew you would be fair. What with the high prices in a place like London.”
Peter drove away with the four paintings safely locked in the boot of his car, leaving June Brown with the cash sum of four thousand one hundred and twenty pounds.
After arriving at the hotel, in the privacy of his room he was virtually jumping up and down. He could hardly believe his luck. What he had just purchased was almost certainly a genuine Picasso with a handwritten note from the artist attached to the back. He knew this wasn’t a scam. After all, scams were something Peter knew all about.
When he got back to London he would take the painting straight to Sotheby’
s auction house in New Bond Street and get it authenticated but he was 100% certain it was genuine.
Of course, there was a slim chance he was wrong. And besides, it was Friday. By the time he had got back to London, they’d be closed. But he would be at their doorstep first thing on Monday. In the meantime, just in case it was a fake, he needed to use every ounce of willpower he had and focus on his attendance as a stallholder at the Evesham Art and Antiques Fair.
The two-day event had proven to be a good move. Peter sold three of the paintings he had purchased in Trumpington and a further five works of art he had brought from the stock normally kept on display in his London shop, or gallery as he now preferred to call it.
Driving back to London after the antiques fair with just a few miles left to go, his face was glowing and his heart almost pounding out of his chest. He couldn’t wait to show the painting to Norman and tell him the good news.
That lucky break, the one he had been waiting for all those years. It seemed like it had finally arrived.
Chapter Seven
27TH MARCH 2017 - THE AUCTION
“Going once… going twice… for the third and final time… SOLD. For $5.3 million!”
Peter Winston-Moore exhaled the breath he had been holding as the auctioneer’s gavel went down with a sharp crack as he sat transfixed in the main auction room of Sotheby's New York.
Just over five minutes earlier, the bidding had opened at $500,000, and Peter had watched as each bid escalated the price upwards and then into seven figures. For a time, the bids seemed to come thick and fast then gradually slowed as they climbed above $3 million.
By the time the price reached $4 million, all the bidders in the room had dropped out and it seemed to be between two of the people fighting it out on the phones. At what appeared to be the final bid, Peter held his breath as the auctioneer looked from left to right around the room, glancing at the members of staff on the phones before bringing down the gavel and announcing the winning bid.
